


Untouchable

by thewitch0fthewilds (gossamerstarsxx)



Series: Come To Me Again [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Broody Fenris (Dragon Age), Confessions, Custom Hawke, Drunk Fenris, Drunk Hawke, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fenris Has Issues, Fenris Needs a Hug, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Purple Hawke, Sarcastic Hawke, Snarky Hawke, Wine, borderline!fenris, past emotional/psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamerstarsxx/pseuds/thewitch0fthewilds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris hates that he can take a blade in his flesh with more composure than he can the simple brush of a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Alcohol consumption; slightly graphic discussion of rape; panic attack; thought processes that could be construed as hearing voices.
> 
> I headcanon Fenris as being borderline and suffering from PTSD fairly badly, meaning that he often has panic attacks or flashbacks. Sometimes when that happens, he can't always control the lyrium, and he'll involuntarily phase into lyrium ghost. He also reacts badly to being touched; it doesn't hurt, but it makes him feel extremely uncomfortable and a little panicky.

Fenris gazes down at the wine bottle he holds in his hand, eyes following the intricate lyrium lines from the curves of his fingers up along his arm until they disappear into the sleeve of his undershirt. He isn’t paying attention to Hawke. He’s lost in contemplation of his own body, in the twisting vines of brightly tattooed scar tissue that have adorned him literally as long as he can remember.

The touch on his forehead takes him by surprise. His skin lights up, a brief bolt of sensation radiating outward from the dots of lyrium hidden beneath the fringe of his white hair. It dissipates throughout his body like the fading ripples on the surface of a pond. It isn't painful exactly, although once it would have been agonizing. No, pain isn’t the problem.

Panic is the problem.

Hawke’s touch takes Fenris unaware and he reacts to that as he has been conditioned him to react outside of battle: his muscles tense, tight to the point of shaking, and his brain begins to trip over itself, weighing him down with illogical fears and scenarios, flooding him with anxiety that he knows to be irrational but is powerless to hold at bay.

**_(he’s not going to stop he wants more you know that he’s not going to stop why would he stop he’s not going to stop they never stop-)_ **

Fenris's skin begin to crawl. The lyrium lines begin to gleam, but he holds himself in reality, thanking the Maker that the wine has dulled his reactions at least _that_ much. He realizes suddenly that Hawke is speaking to him, that Hawke has withdrawn his hand and pushed his chair back to where it had been at the start of the night, before the drinking and talking had prompted them to scoot nearer to one another.

“Fenris?” Hawke says. “Hey, look at me, okay?”

Fenris obeys, tilting his head upward, but he looks down every time their eyes meet. It’s a gut reaction, one he has acknowledged but has yet to unlearn. “Yes?” he says, his voice low and wary despite his efforts to sound calm.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says. “Really. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Fenris, I swear. I should have asked, and I'm sorry. I’ll leave, if that’s what you want. Or just sit on my hands all night?”

Fenris glances up at Hawke in surprise. His anxious mind falls blissfully silent in the wake of Hawke’s apology and the concern in his bloodshot green eyes. He’s smiling, of course; Hawke is always smiling, but this one is small and ashamed, barely reaching his flushed cheeks, and it makes Fenris feel a little guilty for the way his mind had flown to the worst possible conclusions.

“No,” he says, “No, I...don’t want you to leave, Hawke. I’m sorry, I...”

“Hey, no.” Hawke cuts him off. “Fenris, you don’t have to apologize or explain yourself, okay? It was my fault. I should have asked.”

Fenris takes another long drink before he answers. Logically, he knows that he owes Hawke no explanation. He also knows Hawke will never ask for any, but right now he wants to explain, and he doesn’t know if it’s the wine or the confusing feelings he has for Hawke or a combination of the two.

Fenris takes another sip and the longer he sits in silence the more _want_ turns into _need._  He needs to get this out, needs to explain it even if Hawke never understands, because it’s poisoning him, but he can't do it without the wine to loosen his tongue and dull his senses.

“I...cannot seem to remember before,” he says, looking at the wine bottle in his hand and twirling it, needing somewhere to focus the last of his nervous energy. “It all starts after, for me, but I...I’m all but certain it must have been before, too.”

From the edge of his vision he sees Hawke take another drink and lean forward onto his knees, the bottle dangling between them. Despite Hawke's bleary eyes Fenris knows that all Hawke’s attention is on him.

“It…?” Hawke asks, and Fenris meets his eyes briefly before looking back at the ground. Gut reactions aside, Fenris would not be able to look anyone in the eye while telling this, let alone Hawke, of whom he has grown dangerously fond in the past several months.

“After...I knew nothing.” Fenris drinks again, making up his mind, letting the wine take him. “I woke up with my blood on fire. I do not remember how it was done...I _think_ that my skin had been flayed off all along the lines, then filled in with lyrium somehow. I...I do not know. The pain was all I knew, and it was radiating from the wounds into the rest of my body like heat radiates from a burning torch. I was naked and glowing, suspended from a chain in the ceiling by my wrists, and the only thing I knew was pain. I was terrified, until Danarius came.”

Fenris stops himself, hating the truth of it, which is that he had once felt grateful to Danarius, grateful to the mage who had tortured him into existence. He drains the rest of the wine, then immediately uncorks another.

“You don’t have to do this, Fenris,” Hawke says, as gently as possible. “You’re drunk. Hell, _I'm_ drunk. I don’t want you to tell me anything you wouldn’t want to tell me sober.”

“Drunk minds, sober hearts,” Fenris says, and he actually chuckles at himself. “Hawke, I _want_ to tell you, but I...do not think that I can do it sober.”

“That’s okay,” Hawke says. “It’s okay.”

“No,” Fenris mumbles. “No, it truly isn't, and that...that is why I want to tell you. I...I need to. If you will listen.”

“Always,” Hawke answers. “Go ahead.”

“Danarius came,” Fenris continues. “When I asked who I was, he named me. When I asked where I was, he told me I was where I belonged. When I asked why I was in so much pain, he told me that it was because it pleased him. When I asked what I was to do, what would become of me...he told me I was to obey him, to...to please him, that that was all that mattered any more, and that was all I should focus on. And I...I did not have a choice. I did not have anything else. I was like a child. I asked what I was to call him. He told me his name, but he told me that I would never be allowed to speak it, that I should call him only _master_.

He collared me. I think it was silverite. It was narrow and tight...agony against my skin. Everything was, right afterward. But Danarius did not care. I was the only slave he owned to be collared. He...I used to think it amused him. He liked to say that I was more dangerous than any Qunari mage. It made me seem more frightening, stronger than I was, particularly early on when the barest breeze was torment on my skin. Now...now I think he kept me collared and leashed because he was afraid of losing me.”

Fenris realizes that he is rubbing the back of his neck, massaging a phantom ache caused by a collar he no longer wears, and he snatches his hand down, clenching it into a fist on his knee. He takes another drink and from beneath lowered lashes he sees Hawke do the same.

“ _That_ plan failed beautifully,” Hawke says, and Fenris can’t help but smile at him for a moment.

“Leashing me was clever,” he says. “It made me a more intimidating bodyguard, as I said. But I...I was more than Danarius’s bodyguard.”

His skin begins to crawl in protest of the direction his mind is taking, but the wine is making his reactions sluggish. His mental state may be questionable but his drunkenness keeps his adrenaline down, and he is no longer afraid of involuntarily phasing into a ghost. He ignores it.

“I was Danarius’s bodyguard,” Fenris repeats. “But I was also his body servant...no, body _slave_. I had a small room, but I was only ever put there when Danarius was unhappy with me. Otherwise I slept on the floor in Danarius’s bedroom. He often had me chained to the foot of the bed. I woke him in the mornings. I shaved him, helped him dress. I was unleashed to bring him his meals, fetch him whatever he required, to serve his guests when he had them. He kept me close...he always wanted me close, to attend his every request, every...every desire.”

His teeth grind in his skull as his jaw clenches, and he has to pause again. He drinks deep, his head beginning to ache from the wine, and when he looks up at the sound of Hawke’s voice he makes himself dizzy.

“De…” Hawke’s drunken eyes suddenly narrow to dangerous slits. “Desire?”

Fenris looks back at the ground and closes his eyes against Hawke’s realization, against the memories that he is very purposefully dredging up, hoping against hope that bringing them to light will lessen their hold on him. He’s here now, has arrived at what he wanted to tell, and so he drains the last of his wine, settles his elbows on his knees and his aching head in his hands, and lets the words fall out of his mouth.

“It started the very night I got them. He would not stop touching them, _admiring_ them he said. He would run his fingers over them and trace them from my chest down my hips down... _d-down_...he dragged his nails down my back, choked off my screaming with the leash. That is what happened...what continued to happen. He never touched me unless...unless it was for his pleasure or my punishment. Those were the only reasons _anyone_ ever touched me. Danarius was not a...not a generous man, but he...he would take money, on occasion. For me. I was expected to satisfy."

Fenris clasps his hands until his knuckles pale, trying to keep them from shaking.

"He always told me that I was...he told me I was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he _owned_. He would remind me that he had given me a purpose, and that purpose was his pleasure. And...Maker save me, I...tried to accept that. I tried to believe it, embrace it. I...suppose that makes it my fault. It was all I knew. It was literally all I knew. I did not know that it was wrong, and...well, in Tevinter, it _wasn't_  wrong."

He takes a deep breath. "Hawke, I had no idea that there were people in this world who would touch me without intending to use me or hurt me. I know better now, but I still...I cannot always control how I react, if I'm touched without expecting it. That is why I flinched, not because...not because of you.”

He massages his fingertips against his temples. The wine has done its job, as it usually does. His mind and his blood are both quiet. Unfortunately, the price he pays for these few hours of calm tends to come in the form of either a headache or a hangover. Fenris is beginning to think he will be suffering from both this time, but right now he doesn't mind. It's keeping him from having to look at Hawke, from having to see his face and his reaction. Fenris knows that Hawke promised to listen, but listening is not understanding, and he wonders if Hawke will think less of him, blame him for what happened because he had initially tried to accept instead of fight it. Maker knows Fenris blames himself; no matter how far away Danarius might be, no matter how confident Fenris has become, he can't shake the conviction that it was all his fault.

"Fenris?"

He closes his eyes and takes a moment to breathe before he sits up, bracing himself for the worst.

Hawke has set his wine aside and his big hands are stuffed deep into his pockets. He's looking at the ground between his boots so Fenris can't see his expression, but his broad shoulders look tense.

"Hawke?" Fenris prompts, rubbing his aching head absently.

Hawke looks up, and he's not smiling. It's a little unnerving, and it becomes even more unnerving when he asks Fenris to look at him.

"Please try to really look at me, Fen," Hawke adds. "If you can? I know it's hard for you sometimes...Maker knows I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable again. I need you to listen to me, want to make sure you understand, but I won't make you."

Fenris looks at him, meeting Hawke's strangely solemn bloodshot green eyes, resisting the reflex to look down immediately afterward, wondering if his habit of looking down is as obvious to the others as it apparently is to Hawke. His heart is somewhere in his throat and he wants Hawke to get it over with, to rip the bandage off already so that he can start trying to forget the way Hawke makes him feel.

"I can't even begin to comprehend what life was like for you," Hawke says softly. "Saying 'I'm so sorry for what you went through' is inadequate as hell, and I know it, but it's still true. No one should have to live like that. No one."

"No," Fenris mumbles. "No, they should not."

"No one deserves to live in fear and chains," Hawke continues, "And you...you didn't deserve any of what Danarius did to you, Fenris. Not any of it."

Fenris's eyes widen. He has spent so long feeling guilty that he can't believe what Hawke is saying at first. His initial reaction is to look away, look down, but Hawke's gaze holds him steady and his voice is fierce and low and brooks no argument as he goes on.

"What he did to your mind and your body when he gave you those lyrium tattoos, he did without your consent," Hawke tells him. "He wiped your slate blank, and it's not your fault that you tried to live with the hell he wrote on it afterward. What choice did you have, after he erased everything you'd known before? You can't be faulted for trying to rationalize and accept what you were told when it was literally all that you knew. You were trying to survive, Fenris, and you can't hold that against yourself. There is no excuse, no justification for what Danarius did to you. It wasn't your fault, Fenris. _It was never your fault._ "

Hawke holds Fenris fast with his gaze for another moment or two, and the intensity between them is so pronounced that Fenris thinks he can almost see it, hovering between them like a cloud of electricity. The feeling doesn't fade even when Hawke drops his eyes, looking down at his lap, the flush across his cheeks and nose deepening to a shade no amount wine could cause on its own.

_It was never your fault._

Fenris has never heard those words before. They echo in his mind with all the emphatic kindness of Hawke's voice, and Fenris wonders at them, both the words and the man who spoke them, because it has never occurred to him not to blame himself.

Fenris has been ashamed of himself, disgusted with himself for what Danarius did for literally almost as long as he can remember. In the aftermath of the first night Fenris remembers feeling both defiled and defined by what had been done to him, by the pain and degradation that was the whole of his experience...that went on to become his life.

Fenris shivers. His skin crawls. His stomach drops and acid bubbles up in his throat, making his eyes water, but he forces himself to swallow it down. As soon as he does he is hit with a wave of nausea.

"Fen?"

Hawke's voice is sharp with concern, and Fenris wishes he could believe what Hawke said, wishes he could believe it wasn't his fault, but...

**_(he says on your knees and you drop he says take it off and you do he speaks and you obey)_ **

"Fenris!"

Hawke's voice is louder now, loud enough to shake Fenris out of his own thoughts. He looks over and finds Hawke kneeling close beside him, one hand on the table, the other balled into a fist on his knee, his green eyes wide with alarm.

"Fenris, it's okay," Hawke says, and his voice is earnest, bordering on pleading. "You're safe. I'm here and you're safe and I swear to the Maker we're going to keep you that way, all right?"

And then Fenris sees it, what has Hawke so worried - it’s him. The tattoos are blinding bright, bleeding translucence into the rest of his skin, giving him an eerie, faded appearance...like a ghost.

_“Fasta vass!”_

Fenris stands up so suddenly that Hawke topples backward. He wants to apologize but his tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth and the blood rushes from his head so quickly that he grows dizzy. The nausea returns, but Fenris bites down on it hard. He closes his eyes against the spinning world and forces himself to feel the lyrium, to feel it even through three bottles of wine…

“Fenris, it’s okay.”

Hawke again. His voice is soft, slow, and calm in contrast to the storm raging in Fenris’s head.

“Take your time, Fen. Just breathe and take your time. I’m not going anywhere, you’re all right.”

Hawke is talking to keep him grounded, keep him calm, but Fenris knows Hawke is also talking to keep himself calm - Hawke babbles when he’s anxious. Fenris knows Hawke’s anxious voice, and this is it.

_Why is he so worried about me?_

“Tell me if you want me to do something, okay? Leave, shut up, grab a bucket...just talk to me. When you can, I mean.”

Fenris inhales deeply, finding the loose thread in his mind that connects him to the lyrium and holding it tight. As he exhales he can feel the ghostliness begin to fade, the bitter chill giving way to that familiar, aching heat that always lingers under his skin after he returns to normal.

He opens his eyes, but the world is still spinning, lurching in circles like a child’s top at the end of its twirl. He takes a step back, setting his feet in order to balance himself, but he only succeeds in stumbling and falling hard into his chair.

“I think you should get some rest,” Hawke says, and when Fenris looks down at him he’s relieved to see the tentative smile on Hawke’s face. He’s also somewhat touched (and embarrassed) to see a dusty, cracked bucket sitting beside his chair.

“Oh, don’t blush like that,” Hawke says, his smile widening into a grin. “As if you haven’t seen me on my knees behind the Hanged Man throwing up nothing but ale and Rivaini rum for fifteen minutes.”

“I _did_ tell you Rivaini rum should not be taken lightly,” Fenris mumbles, leaning his head back against the wall with - despite everything - a faint smile on his lips. He can’t help it. He’s exhausted in every aspect of the word, but thanks to Hawke, he is not alone.

“Maybe next time I’ll listen to you,” Hawke replies, and Fenris actually manages a brief laugh.

“I doubt that,” he says, and his eyes are beginning to flutter closed as the wine and fatigue start to catch up with him at last. “If it involves food, alcohol, or a fight, I believe you would ignore the Maker himself.”

Hawke laughs; it’s a soft sound, gentle, and Fenris - tired, drunk, half-asleep - loves it.

“Go to sleep, Fen,” Hawke says.

Hawke’s voice is the last thing Fenris hears until morning, when he wakes with a vicious headache and stiff muscles to the sound of snoring. He opens his eyes to slits, and despite the pain in his head and his body, despite the creeping embarrassment of what he revealed the night before, he begins to smile.

Hawke is stretched out on the floor next to Fenris, his head pillowed on a ragged tapestry he’d ripped from the wall above them. The hand resting on his stomach clutches one of his daggers, the other is sprawled toward Fenris, and he is snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

 _I love him_ , Fenris thinks, and though it will be months before he says it, this is the first time he thinks it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris can't help but assume the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Alcohol consumption; panic attack; hearing voices.
> 
> I headcanon Fenris as being borderline and suffering from PTSD fairly badly, meaning that he often has panic attacks or flashbacks. Sometimes when that happens, he can't always control the lyrium, and he'll involuntarily phase into lyrium ghost. He also reacts badly to being touched; it doesn't hurt, but it makes him feel extremely uncomfortable and a little panicky.

Fenris notices the difference within a few weeks.

It starts one night in the Hanged Man, where they always seem to end up despite the stench and the rowdy clientele. Varric is sitting next to him, tipsy from Rivaini rum and in a talkative mood. It has happened before, and it isn’t that Fenris is unwilling to talk to him - he actually quite likes Varric - but when he’s in his cups and wants to talk, Varric has a tendency to sling his arm around the shoulders of whoever he’s questioning. Fenris has seen him and Hawke like that too many times to count: both of them drunk to the point of giggling, Hawke sitting on the edge of the bench with Varric next to him, their arms around each other’s shoulders, whispering and snickering like bad schoolchildren. Varric has done it to them all at some point, pulling them down to his level to talk about Maker knows what, and Fenris really doesn’t mind talking, but he minds the way his skin crawls and tightens over his muscles, he minds the panic that flutters in his chest.

So when Varric starts asking him questions that Fenris can barely hear (Isabela is singing a drinking song from Rivain on the other side of the table, and half the damn tavern has joined in), he begins to brace himself.

“Andraste’s tits it’s loud in here,” Varric says, then adds something else that Fenris doesn’t hear; he taps one of his pointed ears and shakes his head.

Varric rolls his eyes, and Fenris waits, but all he does is crook a finger at him - _come here._

Fenris is surprised, but he does as Varric asks, leaning down and opening himself up to a barrage of questions about everything from Hawke’s body hair to the difference between handling a greatsword and a longsword. He answers the latter willingly enough, but pretends he never heard the former (for a while, anyway, until he’s had about two pints more of ale than he should have and Varric asks again).

During a trip to the Wounded Coast to hunt slavers a few days later, Sebastian doesn’t kneel to haul him to his feet when he’s knocked down as he has so many times before. Sebastian falls behind him instead, arrow after arrow punching through the throats and eyes of each enemy who tries to fall on him before he regains his footing. Fenris thinks little of it at the time; he’s just relieved that he won’t have to counterbalance creeping panic with resuming control of the battlefield.

A similar trip a week or so later - this time to collect concrete evidence of slaver activity in Kirkwall - results in Aveline recounting her plan for the ambush to him without first placing a hand on his shoulder, as she is wont to do when they must divide the enemy’s attention between them. Again, Fenris is too relieved at being spared the distraction to think too much of this gesture, but without the added burden of his skin crawling and the lyrium in his blood trying to rise against his will, he and Aveline dominate the area. With support from Varric, Hawke is able to snatch the documents he needs in record time.

The next evening, he finds himself sitting between Isabela and Merrill at a corner table of the Hanged Man, leaning back against the wall and trying to make up an excuse to leave. He doesn’t _want_ to leave - Hawke is sitting diagonally from him, across from Merrill, and he keeps glancing at him when he thinks Fenris isn’t looking. Fenris would die before ever revealing how pathetically _giddy_ those glances make him. Still, he doesn’t think he can bear it tonight.

Isabela is beautiful and clever, and Fenris considers her a friend. She flirts with everyone, of course, though Fenris doesn’t mind that in and of itself. His only problem comes from the fact that Isabela is also incredibly _physically_ affectionate, and the more tipsy she gets, the more affectionate she gets. It doesn’t particularly matter who is next to her on any given night; she’ll lay her head on their shoulder, touch their arm, run her fingers through their hair, kiss their cheek.

As for Merrill, when she  _does_ drink - as she has been tonight - she ends up having to pee approximately every ten minutes, and Fenris is a little worried that she’ll fall directly into his lap trying to scoot out. It happened once before, very early on, and Fenris would rather not endure for a second time the looks of dark disapproval he got from basically everyone when his gut reaction was to push her unceremoniously out of his lap and onto the floor.

He sighs and leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, unable to make up his mind. Isabela tilts her head close and Fenris holds his breath.

“Mmm, brood a little harder, Fenris,” she purrs, “It _does_ things to me...or Hawke, at least.”

He whips his head around so quickly he feels like he might have wrenched a muscle, but all she does is wink at him before pulling back, never having laid a finger on him.

He’s so busy glaring at Isabela and hoping that no one can see the blush in his cheeks that he doesn’t notice Merrill has disappeared until Hawke and Varric both jump in their seats, gasping about various parts of Andraste’s anatomy. A moment later Merrill appears behind them. She stumbles a little as she stands and grabs Hawke’s and Varric’s shoulders to steady herself.

“Sorry,” she says, “Be right back!”

She turns to walk back to the privy, her usually graceful steps weaving a little. A dozen human men turn to leer at her as she goes and even though _she_ might not notice, Fenris and the rest of their table do.

Aveline and Isabela do not often get along, but the two women exchange only the briefest glance before they both nod at one another and Isabela pops up out of her seat.

“Wait up, kitten, I’m coming too,” she calls, and suddenly all the human men who had been ogling Merrill seem to find their cups much more interesting.

Fenris considers making his excuses while the two of them are absent, but Hawke asks him something about Tevinter curses and Fenris forgets about trying to leave until Isabela and Merrill appear behind Hawke’s shoulders.

Merrill starts to dive back to the floor between Varric and Hawke, but Isabela catches her around the waist.

“Kitten, no, don’t do that again,” she says, “Just…”

Her eyes wander to Fenris, who starts to get up out of his seat, but Isabela shakes her head at him as she maneuvers Merrill around to their side of the table.

“Just scoot over,” she says, “I want to keep her next to me for a bit.”

Fenris does as he’s told. Merrill slips in beside him, followed by Isabela. When Merrill rests her head against Isabela’s shoulder with a yawn, Fenris realizes that he no longer has anything to worry about. He’s also directly across from Hawke, who seems to realize that he is no longer going to be able to be half so sneaky about stealing glances; his ale-rosy cheeks flush a little bit brighter, and Fenris tries to tell himself that it’s absurd to feel excited that he makes Hawke blush.

It doesn’t work very well, and Fenris drinks some ale to hide the smile on his face.

 _“Vos a fotterre nudnus,”_ he says, resuming their conversation. “I believe that is your favorite, if I am not mistaken?”

Hawke’s eyes light up. “Go fuck a nug?” he asks, looking like a child offered a sweet.

“Go fuck a nug,” Fenris confirms.

“Okay, please tell me more.” Hawke leans forward on his elbow but keeps his other arm close to himself, fingers wrapped around his mug to keep from reaching forward. “Do you speak anything else? I mean beside the trade tongue and Tevinter and Qunlat?”

“Not fluently,” Fenris admits. “I have a little Antivan, but it likely would not be useful unless you want to buy some very expensive wine or even more expensive prostitutes.”

“Will you tell me anyway?” Hawke asks.

The topic of conversation for the rest of the night is set, then: Fenris says something to Hawke that more or less translates to _I will give you riches if you will pleasure me,_ which Isabela overhears. She surprises Fenris by telling him - in Antivan - that he wouldn’t need to give Hawke _anything_ to do that. Fenris blushes with an uneasy laugh. When Hawke asks for a translation Isabela omits her own contribution, much to Fenris’s relief. The others pick up on the exchange, and for the rest of the evening their table in the Hanged Man becomes a blasphemous, lecherous, multilingual confusion.

Varric contributes a few surviving examples of dwarven curses, things he overheard from his parents and brother; Merrill, despite being half-asleep, teaches them the most common Elvhen curses and then giggles herself into the hiccups when Isabela asks about Elvhen words for various sex acts; Anders mentions that the names of Darkspawn varieties all come from Ander, and when he finds out that no one has ever heard it spoken, he repeats what he remembers, translating the swears but little else; Isabela admits to learning what she knows of Antivan from an Antivan Crow, and repeats a string of very interesting and sinister-sounding swear words; Aveline, after much pleading, consents to curse for them in Orlesian; and Isabela teases them for awhile by mentioning a variety of sexual phrases in Rivaini without revealing their meaning until later, at which point Aveline calls it a night.

It’s only when Hawke turns to say his goodbyes to Anders that Fenris realizes how much time has passed. He’s drunk - more drunk than he intended on getting tonight - and Merrill is curled up like a kitten on the other end of the bench. The tavern is empty and Isabela has moved to the head of the table where she and Varric are discussing getting Merrill home.

He also realizes that he and Hawke have done it again. Hawke's head is turned toward Anders as they discuss something about an upcoming excursion, but his body remains angled toward Fenris and his hands lie close to Fenris’s own somewhere in the middle of the table as if they have both been slowly and subconsciously reaching for one another all night. Fenris thinks they probably have.

He looks at Hawke’s scarred and calloused hands, his long narrow fingers, and he wonders what it would feel like to have Hawke touch him, if he could stand to be touched. If he could turn off the sharp tingling and the fear and the memories, what would it feel like? He has no idea, not even something to compare it with. Any memories he may have had of gentle affection - of consensual, desired touch - are gone, but he can’t stop looking at Hawke and he can’t stop wondering.

What would those hands feel like in his hair, if he’d been able to let Hawke push his hair out of his eyes? What would it be like to have Hawke’s fingers entwined with his, if he took off his clawed gauntlets and let it happen? What would it be like to have Hawke’s arms around him, to know in both his heart _and_ mind that he was safe there? Would Hawke’s shadow-scruff of a beard hurt him, or would it feel good? How would Hawke’s lips feel on his own? And what would it be like to have them against his throat, or -

Hawke looks back to him, and for a split second, their eyes lock on one another. Fenris drops his almost instantly, but this time he thinks it might have more to do with the suddenly uncomfortable state of his breeches than an old habit. He realizes that he hates this, hates that the only time he’s never anxious about being touched is in the middle of a battle, hates that he can take a blade in his flesh with more composure than he can the simple brush of a hand.

Hawke’s hand twitches, his scarred fingers reaching for Fenris for half a moment before he curls them back under his palm in a loose fist.

“Sorry,” he says, and his half-hearted smile makes Fenris furious with himself.

"Me too," he replies quietly.

Hawke opens his mouth to speak but hesitates for a moment, looking pained and unsure. Fenris is glad when Varric nudges Hawke’s shoulder and asks if he is going to carry Merrill back to Lowtown, or if Isabela should do it this time.

"Just in case you had some...y'know. Other plans," Isabela adds, giving Hawke her most devilish grin before glancing toward Fenris, who barely resists the urge to hide underneath the table.

Hawke doesn't answer immediately. He glances back to Fenris, conflicted.

Fenris wants more than anything to be able to ask Hawke to let Isabela take this one, to ask him to walk home with him, to stay the night with him. Instead he drops his eyes and focuses on the pale blue swirls tattooed over his knuckles. He flexes his fingers, curls his hand into a fist, and wishes he could strip the memories from his mind and the lyrium from his skin. Drunk and angry with himself for reasons he's afraid to consider, Fenris waves his tattooed hand toward the door.

"Go," he says, and when that sounds too short, too harsh, he adds, "Unlike Merrill, I can still manage to walk home."

"Or weave there," Isabela teases. "I'm going to Merrill's anyway, Hawke, really. I don't want her to get sick in the night and be alone."

Fenris shivers as he feels Hawke's eyes on him, but he doesn't look up, doesn't let himself.

"Then we can switch off when she gets heavy," Hawke finally answers, and gets up from the table.

They part ways in front of the Hanged Man. Merrill is curled up against Hawke's back, arms around his neck, her narrow legs hooked over his hands. She mumbles a goodbye to Fenris, then yawns and snuggles herself against Hawke's shoulder. Fenris tries not to be jealous. He also tries to ignore Isabela, who mouths _What the fuck are you doing? Take him home!_ over Hawke's other shoulder as they say their farewells.

Fenris walks off into the night alone, strapping his gauntlets back on and checking to make sure he grabbed his sword from Varric's room. He's drunk, but he'll never be drunk enough to forget that he's a fugitive, that he’s hunted. The weight of the sword at his back makes him feel safer, steadier, more grounded, but he finds that unless he looks at his feet as he walks, he _does_ weave a little - just as Isabela said.

Fenris sighs, wondering if everyone else can see through him as clearly as Isabela did tonight. Is he really that obvious?

He knows the answer without even having to think about it. Where Hawke is concerned? Yes. Yes he is. As soon as he had stopped worrying that Isabela might lean her head on his shoulders or that Merrill might fall in his lap, Fenris had been comfortable enough to drink and talk as he wished...and only an idiot would have missed the fact that he did most of his talking with Hawke.

If he's being honest with himself, Fenris has to admit that Isabela isn't even the first to figure it out. Varric has known for weeks, apparently, given the offhanded way he enquired about Hawke's body hair ("Or lack thereof, I suppose," Varric had said, "Not everyone can have the chest hair of a dwarf, but I want to make sure I've got the details right.") and the knowing arch of his eyebrows when Fenris swore the only reason he knew anything about what lay underneath Hawke's clothes was because he had managed to spill red wine on his white undershirt at the mansion one night, and Fenris had offered to wash it out so it wouldn't stain.

Fenris winces a little. Now that he thinks about it, no matter how true that story might be, it _does_ sound made up. No wonder Varric hadn't believed him. He'd been so surprised (and glad) not to be tucked under Varric's broad arm that he hadn't thought much about it at the time.

 _And why did that not happen_? Fenris wonders, remembering that he'd seen Varric hook Hawke down into a discussion of something not quite legal just a few hours ago. He'd seen Isabela walk her fingers down Anders' arm, too, had even seen her kiss Merrill's cheek, but she'd never so much as brushed his side the whole time she sat beside him. And Merrill had _crawled on a tavern floor_ instead of asking him to move -

Fenris stops in his tracks. He reels a little in his drunkenness and throws out a hand to steady himself against the stone wall next to him.

 _He would not,_ Fenris thinks. _No_.

But on the tavern floor? The _Hanged Man's_ floor?

His mind starts to race as he tries to remember if anyone has touched him at all in the month or so since he'd spilled his heart out to Hawke like wine from a smashed bottle.

And they haven't.

His chest grows tight, as if something is squeezing the air out of his lungs, the blood out of his heart.

 _He would never_ , Fenris thinks desperately, _He would never, not him, no -_

A dark, sneering voice laughs somewhere in the back of his mind. Fenris knows that voice. It's the one that whispers _It's your fault_ when he wakes up from nightmares of Danarius's hands on him, the one that Fenris has tried not to listen to for a month now, ever since Hawke had countered it with his fierce assurance that it _wasn't_ his fault, had _never_ been his fault -

He tries to ignore it now, knowing that listening to it will only make the vise around his chest twist more tightly. Listening to that voice now, with the alcohol still coursing through him...he isn’t even halfway home. That can’t happen here, not in the open, and never mind that it’s 3AM and deserted.

Fenris tries to clear his mind. He walks on, staring down at his feet, but he can't seem to breathe properly. It hurts, it hurts so much, and no matter how many times he assures himself that he'll talk to Hawke about it later - when they're both sober - the sick ache in his chest only deepens.

 _He would never do such a thing._ Fenris thinks fiercely. _He did no such thing. It was not my fault, it was never my fault - that is what what he said, and he would never tell them-_

**_(but wasn’t it-)_ **

the voices whispers,

**_(wasn’t it and wasn’t he hoping you'd give in let him take you pretty elf he’d say anything to get you in bed should have given in you gave in to Danarius and who else oh yes everyone else everyone he gave you to you gave in you let them you allowed it of course you did and he told them he told them all they know they know everything don’t want to be near you don’t want to touch you filthy dirty slave -)_ **

Fenris is shaking, clutching his hair, trying not to scream as he forces himself forward, but he can't shut it up. He can't, not tonight. He's too drunk, the alcohol finding its way into every crack and crevice of his armor and eroding it wide. His emotions are starting to become too intense, bordering on violent, flooding him with adrenaline; his skin begins to crawl as the lyrium wakes and thrums in his blood.

He stops walking. His heart is slamming against his ribs like a mad dog trying to escape a cage, and his lungs seem too small, unable to hold the breath he needs to get ahold of himself. He sinks his teeth into his tongue, pitting the sharp pain and the copper-lyrium taste of his own blood against the buzzing in his skin, against the panic that threatens to overwhelm him. He can't lose it here. It's one thing to fall apart in the safety of the mansion, one thing to cleave furniture that has never been his, put his gauntleted fists through mirrors he's never owned. He is confined there, safe from the eyes of others, and they are safe from him - here, he’ll likely get taken in by the guards, and Aveline would not much appreciate that particular headache.

 _Did Hawke tell her too?_ he wonders, then curses under his breath for believing what he doesn't know, can't know -

**_(but you know-)_ **

the voice hisses,

**_(you do know you know he told them told them all why else would they not touch you why why they always did before so why else there’s no other reason can’t be he told they know he told they know they know everything-)_ **

He wants to carve that voice out of his head, wants to scream until he drowns it out, but he can't, not here, he can't, he won't -

**_(it’s true all true all I say is true I’m in your head I must be you I am you and you know what you are what what what not who but what because you’re a thing a toy a weapon an object not a person never a person used like an object decorated like an object owned like an object and you’ll never be anything else-)_ **

"Be quiet," Fenris whispers, "Please, please just be quiet..."

He knows he's talking to himself, but he can't stand it, can't take it anymore -

**_(he told them he told them everything and they won’t touch you of course they won’t because it was your fault your fault your fault you dirty broken thing and you know it you know it because how could he care about you you are nothing you are nothing you are nothing-)_ **

"I know," Fenris mumbles, and the panic threatens to burst his throat. "I know, I know, now leave me be..."

"Fenris?"

**_(behind you sneaking up on you grab you hurt you take you-)_ **

Fenris draws his sword with a snarl, whirling on the voice like a cornered beast, anger and panic overcoming his sense. He doesn’t recognize the voice as Hawke's until he sees him, holding his hands up in surrender, his face lit only by the eerie gleam of Fenris’s tattoos, and when Fenris sees his hands around the hilt of his sword his skin is faded, shifting in and out of translucence. He wishes he could fade completely, wishes with the fierceness of a frightened child that he could fade until disappears, because it’s humiliating, all of it, all of this, and the idea that they know, that they all know what he is…

**_(slave killer monster murderer you will never belong never never no one wants you who would want you for anything anything other than your body pretty tattooed slave pretty tattooed killer and who gave you that who did that for you all you’ll ever be worth sex and death all he wants all anyone wants all you’re worth all you’re good for -)_ **

"Fenris! Maker’s breath, Fen, it's all right, it's just me, okay? I let Isabela take Merrill 'cause I was worried, it's just me, I won't hurt you, all right?" Hawke says, and Fenris laughs.

He laughs but it comes out sounding more like a sob, and he wishes he were dead, captured, anything, anything at all to avoid facing Hawke.

**_(you trusted him why did you do that never should have done that stupid elf thinking he cared no one cares you are stupid stupid stupid-)_ **

"No, you wouldn't, not to my face," Fenris says, and his voice is slurred, breaking even as he tries to make it hard and cold as the steel in his hand. "Just go behind my back, tell them everything I told you - stupid, how could I have been so _fucking_ stupid..."

**_(stupid yes stupid slave stupid elf stupid thing he’ll never love you no one ever loved you never will not worth it don’t deserve it you know what you did and never never never-)_ **

"Fenris," Hawke says, and he speaks slowly, as if trying to mask the wavering notes of pleading and confusion. "Fenris, I didn't tell them everything. I swear on my life. I did tell them to lay off touching you, but-"

**_(liar lying lying to you everyone lies to you not worth the truth-)_ **

"Liar.”

Fenris tries to snarl the word, but it comes out somewhere between a growl and sob. His sword trembles in his hands. He's too unsteady to wield it properly, too drunk to get a handle on the emotions that plague him: he’s furious, terrified, hates himself so intensely that he thinks he might be sick, he can’t draw enough breath and he is so convinced of Hawke’s betrayal that his heart is broken, bleeding raw in his chest as each beat pounds in his ears, and some distant part of his mind tries to tell him that he’s dangerous like this, so dangerous, so incredibly dangerous, but he only grips his sword tighter, fighting to steady the blade. It’s the only thing that makes him feel safe, the only thing he seems to understand.

"Fen, I'm so sorry," Hawke says, and his voice cracks. He sounds so pained that Fenris wants to believe him, but he can't, he can't, he can't -

Hawke moves. His hands are quicker than lightning and Fenris is too drunk to react in time. The greatsword twists hard in his shaky grip and he fumbles it as he never would if his mind were clear. It clatters to the street, the sound of steel on stone echoing loud and painful in Fenris’s ears. He claps his hands over them and flinches away. Hawke steps in, sheathing his daggers and picking up the sword instead, cursing the weapon’s weight as he props it against the wall.

Hawke turns to face him again. Fenris lowers his hands, trying to shift to the balls of his feet, but his balance is off and again he throws a hand against the wall to steady himself. He holds himself there, shaking, breaths coming too quick, too shallow, eyes locked on Hawke as he tries to think but he can’t, at least not correctly. His thoughts are a confusion and all he knows is that he’s been disarmed, that he is naked and vulnerable without the weight of his weapon in his hands or on his back.

**_(unarmed you’re unarmed he’s after you he’s after what you wouldn’t give him after you wants you wants to take you too drunk to run can’t fight he’s too big too fast too strong he’ll take you hurt you hurt you hurt you-)_ **

"I know,” Fenris mumbles, and his voice is so broken and so quiet that Hawke takes a step forward, and Fenris’s mind screams.

**_(grab you hurt you fuck you hurt you take you fuck you break you hurt you hurt hurt hurt hurt you hates you hates you hates you wants to hurt fuck take break hurt hurt hurt-)_ **

“I know!” Fenris cries, and he buries his hands deep into his hair as his skin fades in and out, his tattoos shifting erratically between a gentle glow and blinding bright. “Shut up, please, I know, I _know_ , please -”

"Fen, I'm not saying anything -"

“Not you!” Fenris snaps, raising his head and glaring at Hawke with wild, frightened green eyes. “Not you - my head - just...just get away from me!”

Something dawns in Hawke's eyes, followed by a pained expression so fleeting that Fenris isn't sure it was ever there at all. He backs away quickly, but he doesn’t leave, and Fenris’s body is so tense that it seems as if every muscle will tear under the strain.

When Hawke speaks again, his voice is deeper than before, but steadier too; it’s so gentle and calm compared to the turmoil in his mind, and Fenris wants to trust it so badly.

“I won’t come any closer, okay? I just want to talk to you, Fen, and I know you can hear me,” Hawke says, and Fenris glowers at him with tears in his eyes, more suspicious of him in that moment than he has been of any mage.

“But I think you can hear another voice too,” Hawke continues, “I can’t hear that one, but I believe it’s there, and I don’t think it’s telling you the truth.”

Fenris closes eyes, because he wants it to be true. He wants to believe Hawke, but -

**_(you can’t you can’t how can you why should you-)_ **

"How can I believe you?” he asks, and his voice is thick, shaking.

“Because I love you, Fenris,” Hawke says, and it comes out of his mouth like a matter of fact, like he’s said it a thousand times before, like it’s something Fenris has known for years, and the simplicity of Hawke’s tone combined with such wholly unexpected words stuns him so deeply that even the sneering voice in his head makes no response. When it does, some of the power has gone out of it, because Hawke anticipates it at every turn.

“I know that other voice will probably tell you I’m lying -”

**_(he is he is-)_ **

"- or that I'm only trying to convince you to sleep with me -"

**_(he is he is-)_ **

"But I'm not lying, and I don't care if I never so much as hold your hand, Fenris. I love you, and I am _not_ going anywhere until you're all right,” he says fiercely, clenching his fists at his sides as the forced steadiness of his voice finally gives way. “I’ll sit on my damn hands ten feet away right here in the middle of the street until the sun rises if it will make you more comfortable, I don't even care if I have to follow you to the fucking Anderfels walking a hundred paces behind you with your heavy ass giant fucking sword on my back, _I will not leave you._ "

For the first time in what seems like an eternity, Fenris is able to take a full breath. He isn’t sure if it’s the intensity of Hawke’s last words or the fact that he can see Hawke’s face as he speaks, but somewhere along the way Hawke’s voice had begun to drown out the one inside his head, pushing it down to a whisper...but the whisper is constant, as if his mind were home to a knot of angry snakes, hissing and slithering over one another, trying to escape. He can’t understand it now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there, and Fenris is suddenly exhausted, deeply and completely exhausted.

He sinks to his knees without quite realizing it, hands lying limp on his thighs. He stares down at them, watching as his skin becomes less and less translucent, slowly bleeding back into the world until it is as solid and opaque as ever. It burns. It _always_ burns, turning his whole body into an ember as if reality were a fire fueled by flesh. Even when the searing pain of his skin begins to fade another follows in its wake, a deep, lingering ache that settles into his muscles. Fenris usually bears it all with a blank face and weary resignation, but tonight he has no strength left.

“Please let it end,” he whispers. He’s trembling, and he feels weak, so weak that he wishes he could lie down on the street and sleep for the rest of his life, but he can’t. He knows he can’t. He’s in too much pain, the hissing in his mind is too disturbing, and he’d be dragged away when morning came anyway, locked in a cell for vagrants and drunks to await Aveline’s ire.

But he can’t bring himself to move, and he stares down at the blurred blue lines etched into his hands, barely registering that he’s looking at them through his own tears.

Several moments pass. Hawke’s armored boots appear in front of him, each step tentative, careful.

**_(.....break…...hurt…...take-)_ **

_Let him,_ Fenris thinks dully, and the voice devolves into garbled whispers once more. Fenris sighs and closes his eyes, waiting.

Metal scrapes on stone. The lyrium in his blood hums half-heartedly and falls silent, but he can detect Hawke’s proximity even without the lyrium. He’s close, likely directly across from him: Fenris can feel the warmth of his body, can hear his slow breathing, even smell faint notes of the wine he had drunk all night, cheap, too sweet, made from blackberries.

Nothing happens.

Wearily, Fenris opens his eyes. Hawke is sitting across from him, legs crossed, eyes bloodshot and brimming, hands shoved beneath the tight calf straps of each of his greaves.

“I tried sitting on them,” Hawke murmurs, “But I’m heavy and stone is hard. I didn’t want to break my fingers, so I hope this will do.”

He doesn’t seem surprised when the corner of Fenris’s mouth doesn’t so much as twitch. The silence between them continues to linger, and after a moment he speaks more seriously.

“Do you want me to back off, Fen?” he asks softly. “I don’t know what you need me to do, but I’ll do whatever you tell me, short of leaving you here alone.”

Fenris is surprised when he hears his own flat, defeated voice.

"If you love me...why did you tell them?"

Hawke closes his eyes for a second or two, but when he opens them, they’re still shining wet.

“I told them to knock it off because you don’t like being touched,” he says.

"But you did not have to tell them _why_ -"

"Fen, I didn’t," Hawke replies. "I’d never repeat that behind your back. Not in a thousand years, but I saw you flinch when everyone else touched you, and I...I wanted to do something. _Something._ And you’ve said yourself in front of everyone that those tattoos make your skin weirdly sensitive, so I just repeated that. That’s all. I didn’t know...no. No. I should have asked. _Again_. I’m so sorry. I'm going to do better.”

"They _must_ have asked why." 

“No,” Hawke says. “No one asked why.”

“But what did they _say?_ ” Fenris asks, incredulous, unable to believe that anyone would simply accept this - accept _him_ \- on such terms.

“You really want to know what everyone said?” Hawke asks, with the barest of smiles.

Fenris nods, trying to brace himself for cruelty, criticism, complaints...what else could there be?

“Merrill wrote down two dozen recipes for salves,” Hawke begins quietly, “Two dozen _different_ recipes, at that, and she told me that if nothing worked, come back and she’d write down more. She then apologized for not writing them _all_ down, but she’d used up all the paper in the house.

“Isabela winked at me and said something I probably shouldn’t repeat if she wants to keep her heart in her chest, but she also apologized, promised to keep her hands to herself, and suggested very warm baths with elfroot and spindleweed.

“Varric said, ‘Well, shit. Tell him I’m sorry. I should have realized it myself. Lyrium is a pain in the ass when it’s _not_ tattooed over your entire body. No wonder he’s so broody all the time.’ He also said he’d use the Merchant’s Guild to get you a supply of anything that helped, just let him know what it was.

“Seb looked sort of grave, suggested the elfroot and spindleweed baths, gave me _literally_ every single elfroot potion in his bedroom to give to you, and promised that he would pray for you. He was getting on his knees as I left.

“Aveline looked surprised and then said that if that was the case then you were easily the most impressive warrior she’s seen, and she said that with genuine awe in her voice, by the way, so you should probably feel honored. She apologized for having no suggestions for the actual pain itself, then offered to get thicker armor padding made for you, saying she’d just sneak your measurements into the next order she made for the guards.

“Anders is the only one who asked any questions. The first thing he asked was if there was anything that helped, and I told him I wasn’t sure but didn’t really think so. The second thing he asked was if there was anything he could do. I told him no. Seemed like the best answer, so try not to get badly hurt ever again, yeah?”

Fenris barely notices the subtle teasing in Hawke’s voice. He’s overwhelmed by something, some feeling he doesn’t completely understand. He blinks down at his hands, flexing his aching fingers into fists and out again, trying to think, trying to process...but his mind is so jumbled, and he is in so much pain.

“They care about you, Fenris,” Hawke says softly, picking up on his confusion. “Hell, even Anders didn't want you to suffer if he could help it. They're going to respect your boundaries because they're your friends.”

 _Boundaries_?

Fenris’s fists clench again and this time he doesn't release them. His gauntlets bite into his skin and the veins of his forearms grow even more pronounced. He is shaking.

“Boundaries.” He spits the word like poison. “Boundaries. As if they were something I had set myself. Instead of something set _for_ me, _into_ me, literally carved into my _fucking_ skin -”

The lyrium gleams weakly with the vehemence in his voice, but it sends a wave of nausea through him that wipes out his anger as quickly as it had flared. He is weak again, exhausted, aching, and sick - sick at heart, sick to his stomach, sick of himself.

“I never wanted this,” he mumbles, staring at his clenched fists. “I do not want to be like this.”

“It’s okay,” Hawke says, and Fenris sees his fingers sinking hard into his calves as he speaks, as if he’s trying to hold himself back. “It’s not your fault, Fenris. It's not your fault and whatever you feel, it's okay, whatever help you need, it's okay. No questions asked.”

He looks up as Hawke speaks, needing to see his face before he can begin to accept what Hawke is telling him, but before he can even start to absorb Hawke’s words Fenris catches sight of his sword, leaning against the stone wall just behind Hawke.

Guilt settles into his chest, so heavy and thick that for a moment Fenris thinks he won’t be able to draw breath through its weight. He had drawn his sword on him. He had drawn his sword on _Hawke,_ of all people, while he was drunk, confused, frightened, angry…

 _I could have killed him,_ he thinks, and when Hawke’s face tilts into his line of sight Fenris drops his eyes instantly, too disgusted with himself to even consider ignoring the reflex. He feels ridiculous. Obviously Hawke would never have told everyone the whole truth, and he is furious with himself for ever even entertaining the idea, for letting that evil little lying voice get the better of him after a whole month of denying it, and the shame of turning his sword on Hawke is so bitter that for a moment he thinks he may really be sick.

“It is _not_ okay. Hawke...I am sorry,” he mutters, swallowing past the acid lump in his throat. "I...I have no excuse. None. I never should have drawn my sword on you, no matter what was going on in my head -"

"We can't always control what goes on in our heads, Fenris," Hawke answers. "I know that. We _both_ know that. You saw me after the Deep Roads. So don't beat yourself up over it, okay? Besides, you were weaving,” he adds, with a touch of his familiar insouciance. “I could have dodged you blindfolded."

"Or I could have swung wild and chopped your head off," Fenris counters, speaking through gritted teeth, too ashamed of himself to accept Hawke’s nonchalance. " _Please_ do not try to excuse my behavior -"

"I'm not," Hawke answers, slightly more serious. "Fenris, I’m not. I was scared, I’m not gonna lie about that, but I was more scared you’d hurt yourself than me. I was drunk too and I  _still_  could have dodged you blindfolded. That was me saying 'I forgive you for drawing your Giant Fucking Sword on me, Fenris, and I understand that you did it because Something Bad was happening inside your head.'"

Fenris buries his face in his hands with a groan. Hawke’s sense of humor is one of his best qualities; it is easily his most exasperating as well, because no matter how unfunny the situation, Hawke’s immediate gut reaction is to be a smartass.

“Why could you not just _say_ that?” Fenris sighs, dropping his hands back to his thighs in defeat.

"I just did, didn't I?” Hawke says, and the ghost of a smirk playing upon his lips is infectious. This is his second most exasperating quality: Hawke often manages to make him smile somehow, no matter how much Fenris may not feel like it. Right now he can’t quite manage a smile, but he can’t help smirking - barely, begrudgingly, and only for a moment, but it is enough to make Hawke break out into the broad, beaming grin that Fenris loves, and the sight of Hawke smiling again makes everything - himself included - feel just a little more normal.

“Come on,” Hawke says, rising to his feet with a grace that Fenris doesn’t think he can match, weary as he is. “I'll carry the Giant Fucking Sword. You can stay with me tonight, and no, not like that. I'll sleep on that chaise thing in my bedroom. Loki can bunk it with Sandal."

"Hawke, I am not taking your bed."

"It's not taking when I'm giving, Fen," Hawke says, a little more gently. "Remember that, okay?"

Fenris scrubs his face with his hands. His skin is still sensitive, his muscles still ache, and it hurts enough to make him wince, but it wakes him up, gives him the energy to stand.

"I will try to do that," Fenris says, and watches Hawke brace his sword over one shoulder. The smirk comes a little easier this time as he realizes that Hawke lifted the sword one-handed, despite his initial complaints about its weight.

"I thought my Giant Fucking Sword was too much for you," Fenris says, and the words come out so deadpan that it takes a full five seconds before Hawke laughs out loud.

"Thank the Maker Isabela isn't here," he says, then tips Fenris a ridiculous wink. "Your Giant Fucking Sword is pretty big, but I think I can take it."

Fenris surprises himself with an unexpected and undignified snort of laughter. It hurts his face to smile, but he doesn’t care, not when Hawke is looking at him like that, as if he’d be content never to look away. For a moment Fenris wonders how he always manages to go from mental breakdown to snickering into his sleeve when Hawke is around, but he pushes that thought far out of his mind. He knows that Hawke feels too much like safety, too much like home, but as frightening as that is he won’t think about it now. Not tonight.

"You are just as bad as she is," Fenris says, as they begin walking together toward Hightown. "Please do not tell her about this conversation."

"I promise to keep your Giant Fucking Sword between the two of us."

Fenris rolls his eyes even as the blood rushes to his cheeks. "You are the _worst_."

"And you are very handsome when you blush," Hawke says, and Fenris has to look away at the ground just to hide the slow smile that spreads across his aching face.

_Maker, I’m in trouble._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders had asked if there was anything he could do. Fenris doesn't expect him to act on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Blood; panic attacks; hearing voices; my fervent belief that Fenris and Anders might never be friends but their stories are too goddamn similar for them not to have some shred of empathy for one another, fight me Bioware.
> 
>  **Notes** : I don't remember my lore that well. If my magic-and-lyrium headcanons don't quite align with canon, then uh...my bad, I guess. I also know nothing about swordfighting.

# 1.

Anders is a surprise.

_He asked if there was anything he could do._

Fenris and Anders avoid one another when it's possible, but it often isn't. He knows the mage is Hawke’s closest friend save only Varric, and he does his best to respect that. He thinks Anders tries to respect his relationship with Hawke in much the same way, but there are a few things that set them at odds no matter what.

One of them is Fenris getting wounded.

In battle, they have an understanding. Anders heals Fenris without complaint; Fenris accepts his assistance, and in turn makes certain that the mage garners as little enemy attention as possible. Fenris will defend Anders in battle so long as the mage keeps him (and Hawke) upright, and Anders will heal Fenris so long as he (and Hawke) are well defended.

But accidents happen, and mages suffer exhaustion like anyone else. Fenris knows this but it is never much comfort, not when it means he must allow the mage near his skin with salves and bandages, needles and thread.

It isn’t even that his injuries (or Hawke’s, or Varric’s, or anyone else’s) are ever so grievous that they defy the mage’s skill. Most of the time it is a simple matter of conserving Anders’ strength. The mage can heal basic injuries like cuts, scrapes, bruises, and burns almost without a second thought but in the case of broken bones or deep blade wounds he isn’t always able to heal the injury completely without exhausting himself.

As much as Fenris is loathe to admit it, he knows that they need Anders, and they need him strong enough to both heal and harm at a moment’s notice. Sometimes that means letting the mage use his magic only for the worst of it, then settling for a few stitches, a bandage, or perhaps a splint and a shot of elfroot potion for the rest.

Fenris knows that he is a good warrior. He has the advantage of being quicker than most, as well as the added bonus of being able to make himself more or less incorporeal. Thus, he rarely ends up in the mage’s hands. Yet in any time he _is_ injured he inevitably attempts to hide it, particularly if he knows it is a wound that will require the mage to put in a few stitches.

Is that childish? Perhaps. He dislikes having the mage near him (partially because he and Anders are so often at odds, partially because mages in general make him anxious) but having Anders wave his hands and be done gives him far _less_ anxiety than the mage actually laying hands on him.

It has only happened twice.

* * *

 

# 2.

The first time is a dagger in the back of his thigh. Anders heals it well enough that Fenris is able to finish the fight - albeit with a limp - but as soon as the excitement is over his leg refuses to hold any more. It has only been a few weeks since Fenris joined what Hawke calls “this merry band of misfits” and Hawke is the one who catches him on the way down, half-dragging him back toward shelter, not yet knowing that such rough and unexpected touch sends needlepoints of pain through Fenris’s skin.

The mage is drawn, his face too pale, and though Fenris knows it is from keeping himself, Hawke, and Varric upright throughout the fight, he cannot find it in him to be cooperative when Anders says he will have to resort to the old-fashioned approach if they want him to be functional again any time soon. He heals the deep wound as best he can with magic - Fenris has to give him that - but he argues against letting the mage near him with needle and thread so vehemently that even good-natured Hawke grows irritated with him.

“That thing needs closing, and Anders can’t magic it closed without draining himself to unconsciousness,” Hawke says, glaring down at Fenris in a way he hopes never to see again. “And if you rip your hamstring open in the middle of a fight because you don’t want a couple stitches, then all _four_ of us are fucked, Fenris, because _you’re_ the one with the thick armor, _you’re_ the one with the giant sword, and we depend on _you_ to keep most of the opposition off our asses. If we get swamped Varric and Anders are _fucked_. I’m quick, but I’m not _that_ quick. Now come on. Five stitches, that’s it.”

It ends up being more like ten, and the mage complains about how tense Fenris is the entire time. It might be less painful if he could relax, but lying on his stomach with the mage somewhere behind him, out of his sight, needle and thread digging through tattooed flesh like points of freezing flame...there is no way he can have relax. Not like this. Not when he is having to bite the inside of his lip bloody just to keep control of himself, to keep the panic at bay, to keep himself from involuntarily phasing into lyrium ghost.

* * *

 

# 3.

The second time happens much later, after the night at the mansion when both he and Hawke had drunk too much, the night Hawke had run affectionate fingers through Fenris’s hair and immediately backed off when Fenris had locked up under the touch...it had somehow all come out, then, and the second time was after that, after Hawke knew.

It is his shoulder this time, near the place where it joins his neck. Fenris hunches forward at the last minute, and the blade cleaves down into the meat and gristle of his left shoulder instead of cleaving a vein. Impaled as he is on Fenris’s greatsword, the thug has lost his war axe...but the pain is still so raw and immediate that Fenris reels for a moment, unsure if he can maintain himself. He pulls the axe out, marveling a little at all of his own blood.

Then his tattoos begin to gleam. His skin prickles. The sickening pain in his shoulder fades to a sort of distant, unpleasant warmth. It is Anders, working his magic.

Unfortunately it is a bad day for injuries. Varric loses the right arm of his coat to a flame-happy apostate and the burn penetrates down to the third layer of skin. Varric jokes that he’d just been protecting Bianca, but he is obviously in great pain.

Hawke gets bashed in the face with a shield. His nose - which, according to him, has already been broken twice - is very off center and very swollen. The lower half of face is smeared in blood and he flinches every time he tries to wipe it off. It dries to a reddish crack-glaze throughout the stubble shadowing his mouth, chin and throat. It dries _in_ his nose, forcing him to breathe through his mouth until he stands panting like his mabari.

Anders himself is pale as death - even a little green, as if he might be sick at any moment. He has taken a few arrows in the thighs and shoulders and has been hit by a Mind Blast as well. Fenris knows from experience the kind of blinding headaches _those_ leave behind.

By the time the last wave of thugs along the Wounded Coast have been cut down, it is dark and the mage is so drained that he has to ask Varric to cut the arrows out  - he is too weak to do it himself.

A lyrium potion or two revives him somewhat and he is able to heal his own wounds, as well as put Hawke’s nose back to rights...or at least as close as he can get, considering how badly the previous two breaks had set. Varric’s burn is healed up, at least enough that he no longer claims that he knows what roast dwarf meat smells like.

Fenris comes last - not that he minds.

He is lurking in the shadow of a nearby formation of rocks, hand clapped tight against the deep wound and hoping that he won’t have to sit through stitches again. It is foolish of him - he knows this, has known it since the axe first bit into his skin. He has lost a fair amount of blood and can tell by his own light-headedness that closing the gash will take a lot of concentration on the mage’s part even if he had just rolled out of bed on a sunny morning after a good night’s sleep.

Hawke is the one to find him.

“Don’t,” Fenris hisses, dizzy with blood loss, as Hawke draws near.

“Not gonna touch you,” Hawke says, as gently as possible. “Just let me look at it, Fenris, okay?”

He lets Hawke look, and then Hawke looks at him and there is nothing in his eyes but apology, and then he actually _says_ it, says, “Fenris, I’m sorry, I know…” and Fenris can’t stand it, hates it, and suddenly he hates himself for having ever told his story.

He drops his eyes from Hawke’s, attempting to rearrange his face into the most impassive lines possible as he moves into the light.

Anders is too exhausted to even bother being snarky. “Take your armor off and sit here in front of me, let’s get this over with.”

Fenris unbuckles and unstraps down to his undershirt, ignoring the way his heart begins to beat harder and harder with every piece of armor he drops, ignoring how he has to clench his teeth tighter and tighter the more of his tattooed skin he reveals.

When the mage asks if there is any way he could relax a little, Fenris snaps at him, spits out the first thing that comes to his mind: something about not trusting a mage at his back, he can’t be sure.

“Just be done with it,” he snarls, teeth gritted against the pain he knows is coming.

And it does, worse than before. It is twice as many stitches and he hasn’t exactly given the mage any incentive to be gentle. The pain of the needle and thread through his skin is so intense, so immediate and _invasive_ that Fenris shakes with the effort of trying to control the lyrium.

When he finishes, Anders grudgingly tells Fenris to drink some wine and eat something before taking an elfroot potion, attributing the shaking to blood loss. Instead Fenris straps all his armor back on and stalks back into the shadows he’d emerged from. He hears Anders cursing under his breath, asking himself why the hell he bothers.

Hawke is waiting for him, sitting alone in the gloom and twirling his daggers. He senses Fenris’s embarrassment and remains silent. He hands him a flask of wine and a roll stuffed with cheese instead of attempting to talk.

Fenris takes it grudgingly. He walks past Hawke with only the stiffest nod of thanks. He spends the night awake, far from the glow of the campfire, sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms propped across them, his greatsword leaning against his shoulder and down between his legs.

Hawke lets him be.

* * *

 

# 4.

This time it is different.

This time the wound is in his left arm. His left vambrace had cracked at an earlier point in the fight, but he does not notice until it is too late. When the Carta dwarf’s ax strikes low on the underside of his left arm a blow that should have been glancing becomes disastrous.

The power of the strike is somewhat absorbed by the plate, but the vambrace still breaks in two. The ax does not sever his forearm, but it does sink through his skin and down to the bone with enough force that Fenris reels backward, skin crawling at the whisper-sharp sound of splintering bone, pain bursting to jagged-bright life inside his entire left arm.

Fenris steels himself and sheathes his greatsword with a shaky breath. His skin begins to prickle as Anders’ barrier shields him and siphons away some of the pain. It is replaced by a weird, ringing numbness.

Fenris knows he does not have much time. He needs a weapon. Maneuvering the greatsword one-handed is all but impossible and only worthwhile if the enemy is slow and stupid. The Carta assassins are neither.

He pushes his bloody, half-numb arm beneath the strap that runs over his chest without looking at it too closely, letting the weight of his sword hold it tight against his body. He snatches up a dead Carta assassin’s longsword and readies himself for Anders’ barrier to dissipate.

“Hawke!” He bellows, setting his feet and trying to compensate for his skewed balance, “I will need your help! Mage, keep your barriers on Varric! Varric, get up high!”

There is no way he can keep total control of the field like this. Injured and off balance, he is no longer the biggest threat. He and Hawke will have to work together to keep the enemy off Anders, but Anders will have to keep them off Varric in turn...meaning neither he nor Hawke will have the luxury of recouping under the mage’s shields.

Fenris is somewhat surprised when the barrier falls and his arm begins to grow _more_ numb with magic despite the fact that he can clearly see a blue haze enveloping Varric from his perch on a nearby outcrop of rock. He had expected pain - distant pain, perhaps, but pain nonetheless. Some part of him realizes that Anders is going to be utterly exhausted after this, but he shoves the thought away as Hawke appears at his side.

 _First things first: remember how the hell to handle a longsword._ His balance is dangerously off without the use of his other arm, and the sword itself seems to move too quickly in his grasp.

“How in hell do you handle such light weapons?” He half-shouts at Hawke, awkwardly parrying an enemy sword away from himself.

The masked Carta dwarf in front of him is hit with a blast of white light and freezes, muscles tensing tight - paralysis. The mage is stretching himself thin.

The paralyzed dwarf grows a pointed horn from the middle of their throat. They try to speak; blood froths to their lips and the words are lost, drowned in a sound that makes Fenris think of wine being drained from a barrel. When the dwarf finally slumps forward Hawke is standing behind them with an unnerving grin plastered across his bloodstained face and gore dripping from his dagger.

“Like that,” he answers, and then he's gone again, so quickly and quietly that he almost seems to melt away.

Fenris nearly laughs. “I don't know what I was expecting,” he mumbles, striking a somewhat clumsy blow at the Carta dwarf aiming for his stomach.

They defeat the group of assassins by the skin of their teeth. Fenris manages to get reacquainted enough with the longsword to finish off two or three foes, but he recognizes that this victory is owed almost entirely to the mage.

Not that he’ll ever admit it.

Confusion and paralysis spells had allowed Hawke to take out some of the most dangerous foes with relative ease, and Varric’s near-invulnerability meant that the enemy was under a near-constant barrage of bolts. He himself had only been able to take out as many as he did because the mage had held the pain at bay.

It irks him, but he has no time to dwell on it. Varric hurries them up the shoreline through the misty fog that always seems to cling to the Wounded Coast, then steers them beneath the shelter of a small cliff with an alcove worn into the rock beneath the outcrop.

“These Carta assassins can appear out of thin air, Hawke, and they’re not done with us yet,” Varric mutters. He holsters Bianca across his back with reluctance, as if he expects the fight to pick up again at any moment.

Varric is the only one with no obvious injuries. Hawke’s lip is split and bleeding and his bicep is slashed open, though the wound is nowhere near as grievous as Fenris’s. Anders is pale and haggard as a ghost, clinging to his staff like a man three times his age, an arrow or two still protruding from his shoulder and blood trickling from his temple; he barely even winces as Hawke works the arrows out with a small throwing knife.

Fenris prays to whatever deities will hear that Varric is wrong. The white-noise numbness of his arm is fading away and it is fading into sharp, shrieking pain, and that much he had expected, had braced himself for, but as the numbness fades the colors of the world seem to fade as well, and the ground is lurching toward him -

He leans back, trying to compensate. Instead of falling on his face he falls hard against the alcove wall, the back of his head smacking sharply into the pommel of his sword as his vision swims and clears before him. Hawke says his name but the sound is distant, somehow _thick_ , and he shakes his head, trying to make Hawke understand that he can’t hear.

He must look terrible - he _feels_ terrible - but he doesn't realize just how terrible until his eyes decide to focus and he sees Hawke, sees him _clearly_ , wide-eyed and white-faced with horror.

Fenris looks down at himself.

The front of his armor is slick with blood, more blood than there had been either time before, so much blood that he watches it run in sluggish red rivulets down the ridges of his cuirass. A chill creeps up his spine and he begins to shiver. He squeezes his eyes closed against the dizziness and tries not to be sick.

“Get the sword off him,” the mage says, and though it seems as if he is speaking through water there is an undercurrent of urgency in his voice. Fenris tries to open his eyes, intent upon telling the mage to speak up, but the moment he does he shuts them again - he is so _dizzy_ -

Anders says something else, something Fenris can’t understand - something about blood?

He recognizes the slow _schlink!_ of Hawke unsheathing a dagger and then the weight of the sword at his back disappears. He grunts weakly as his left arm falls limp at his side. Hawke eases him into a sitting position with hands that tremble.

“It’s okay, Fen,” he mumbles; the words are frantic, manic. “It’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you’re okay I promise you’re okay Fen I’m so sorry it's gonna be okay  -”

The lyrium struggles inside of him in response to Hawke’s touch but Fenris only barely registers the sensation. He slumps down. It is difficult to form coherent thoughts.

The smell of his own blood is overpowering, metallic, faintly acidic with lyrium, so thick in his nose that it is sickening -

“Liquor, just for a minute,” the mage says, and then his arm lights up in an entirely new pain, bright stinging pain, and his eyes fly wide even though his vision is still blurry. He sees Anders at a distance, sees him knock back two, three, four bottles of _something_ -

“Anders?!” Hawke exclaims, incredulous.

_Why is he - why - what is..._

**_(he means to kill you)_ **

Fenris thrashes upright, eyes wide and unfocused, head swimming, his arm radiant agony. His grip on the lyrium is tenebrous at best but he bites his lip and wills it into his right hand, hooking his gauntleted fingers into a claw.

“Do not...do not come near me, mage,” he hisses, chest heaving with the exertion of speaking. “Drunk mage...worse than a sober one -”

“Fenris,” Hawke says, kneeling down beside him, “Fen, no, that’s not what he was drinking - _no,_ Fen, _please -_ ”

**_(they mean to kill you they all mean to kill you put you down like a mad dog)_ **

He fades between.

It is quiet like this. So quiet even though it hurts, _burns,_ burns like frostbite, and Fenris wants to stay there, he has never wanted to stay a ghost but right now it is so quiet and the icy burn is so clean and simple and bloodless and he is so _tired -_

**_(stay here stay between they cannot kill you here stay here die here sleep)_ **

Fenris closes his ghostly eyes and everything fades, even the burning fades -

He is torn back into reality with a violent, searing pain. His eyes squeeze closed against the stinging colors of the world and his skin crawls with fire and bile rises in his throat and Hawke’s voice is sharp, bright panic in his ears and the air reeks of blood and magic -

**_(blood magic using you for blood magic using you using you using you like he used you)_ **

Fenris forces himself to open his eyes, trying to catch hold of the lyrium in his blood, trying to bring it to heel, his fingers once again hooking into a dangerous gauntleted claw, but when he looks toward the mage he is horrified to find himself _shrinking_ from him -

“You _idiot,”_ the mage says, and his voice doubles over itself, reverberating through the lyrium in Fenris’s blood like a drumbeat, like a _heartbeat_ , and he is close, _so close,_ his magic is barely reined in and his skin gleams with crackling blue power and Fenris wants to run, oh he wants to _run_ but he cannot even _think -_

**_(kill you he's killing you killing you using you blood magic you can feel it blood magic using you killing you)_ **

Anders’s eyes are wide and manic and burning much too bright, too bright for comfort, too bright to endure, and Fenris clenches his eyes shut, biting his tongue against the rising desire to scream, biting his tongue to keep from calling Hawke -

**_(hawke doesn't care he’s letting this happen letting him use you blood magic he doesn't care never cared you are nothing to him nothing nothing nothing)_ **

“Hawke.”

Anders’ voice hurts. It hurts, it's echoing in his blood and it _hurts_ and the lyrium won't obey him, won't be _still,_ and Fenris thinks his heart might burst in his chest it is hammering so hard against his ribs -

“Fenris,” Hawke says. “Fenris, hey, listen to me, okay? Just listen to me, I’m right here, I’m not leaving you.”

**_(tricking you lying to you)_ **

“I know your head is telling you all kinds of horrible stuff, Fen, I know,” Hawke continues, and his voice is broken, full of pain and fear, but he keeps talking, talking, talking. “You've lost a lot of blood, that axe all but severed one of the biggest veins in your arm, you were losing blood the whole time but you couldn't feel it - Anders didn't know how bad it was - that’s why you're so lightheaded, Fen, that's all. I promise we’re not gonna hurt you. I’d never let anyone hurt you, Fen, okay? Just keep listening to me, please try to listen to me and not what you're hearing in your head, okay?”

**_(tricking you lying to you distracting you so the mage can kill you)_ **

“Open your eyes, Fen, okay? Open your eyes and look at me, all right, just me, you can hear where I am, right? I know you can, so look at me, love, okay? Please,” Hawke continues, “Just open your eyes and look at me, it’s gonna be all right, I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you, not _anyone -_ ”

**_(liar)_ **

Fenris snaps his eyes open. His vision doubles and trebles and he looks away from the blinding blue glare to his left because even though his thoughts are disjointed and scattered he is certain he will go mad if he looks at it, at whatever magic the mage is sowing with his blood.

He looks at Hawke and Hawke’s face is a blur - two blurs, then three, then only one, and the lyrium in his blood is in chaos, desperate to shift him back into that between-place where he is incorporeal and the pain is _quiet_ instead of screeching like a vulture in his mind, but it _can’t._ So many times he has struggled _not_ to phase into a ghost and here is struggling to make it happen and he _can’t;_ the lyrium is fettered by the mage’s fiendish power and so instead of shifting him between it etches agony into his skin, like the tattoos all over again, and Fenris is delirious with it, with the pain and the panic -

**_(liar doesn’t this hurt it hurts it’s blood magic and it hurts and hawke is a liar)_ **

And he _says_ it, says it to Hawke’s face, whisper-sneers _Liar_ with a voice that’s not quite his but not quite _not_ his.

Hawke jerks as if he’s been slapped, burned, as if he’s been cut open, anguish painted plain upon his face before he wipes it away with hardened eyes and a mouth set into a grim line.

“Fenris, _look at me!_ ”

Hawke never makes demands but he makes one now and Fenris complies almost without thinking, the response ingrained so deeply that not even the hellish turmoil in his head can overshadow it.

Fenris looks at him and meets his eyes: fierce, forest-green and furiously desperate, holding his own, _anchoring_ them.

“I would kill anyone who hurt you,” Hawke hisses through his teeth. “Do you hear me? _I would kill anyone who hurt you._ I would never, ever put you through this hell if it wasn’t your goddamn _life_ on the line and the only reason I’m letting this happen to you is because _I will lose you if I don’t_ , so for the love of Andraste, Fen, just _listen to me!_ I’m begging you! Stop fighting it and listen to me because I am not about to stop talking, you hear me?!”

Hawke is true to his word. He continues talking; some of the fierce, frightening intensity faded as he speaks until he is once again pleading and rambling, but even then he doesn’t stop. Even when his voice breaks he talks through the tears. He talks and Fenris listens.

He resists at first. He even tries to cover his ears, but he is far too disoriented from the mage interfering with the lyrium to coordinate his movements. That frightens him worse and that black little voice in his head begins to sneer again, but Hawke is _real_ , real and right next to him and speaking aloud instead of in his head, and the voice in Fenris’s head can’t compete.

He listens. He listens and when Hawke says _breathe_ he does, and when Hawke says _please stop fighting it_ he tries.

It isn’t easy. When he loosens his mental deathgrip on the lyrium, Anders’s magic takes over in its wake. Fenris fears the loss of what little control still remains to him in such a deep, visceral way that every inch he gives threatens to unhinge his mind all over again, but Hawke is still talking, and Hawke promises that he will not let any harm come to him.

Fenris grits his teeth. He cannot hold on like this forever. It is exhausting, excruciating, such hell of pain in his body and mind both that death by any route is slowly beginning to seem preferable.

_If he betrays me...then at least I will know._

Fenris closes his eyes and lets go.

Anders’s magic floods into the lyrium...then recedes like the tide until it is gone.

Fenris snaps his eyes open, bewildered. Anders is crouched next to him. His eyes are still wide and manic and burning much too bright, but the light that pours from his palms and into Fenris’s skin is the opposite. It is gentle, even soothing, and Fenris realizes that Anders had only taken hold of the lyrium to pull him out of his ghost form...and to keep him from phasing back. As soon as Fenris had stopped trying to fade between, Anders had stopped trying to control the lyrium. Now he is only trying to heal the wound.

_There are still the stitches._

Fenris closes his eyes again, berating himself for his ingratitude...but the fact that Anders had not taken advantage of his brief control does not mean that Fenris trusts him, does not mean that he isn’t filled with dread at the prospect of a needle and thread in his skin and strange hands on his body.

At length Fenris realizes that he has been dreading the stitches for far longer than usual. He can even think now, can form coherent thoughts over the pain...except there really isn't any pain. Not anymore.

He opens his eyes and looks down at his arm, lit soft blue from the mage’s pale, shuddering hands. The gash is all but closed. It would not even need stitches now, just bandaging -

Anders takes a deep, trembling breath and widens the spread of his fingers. The shaking worsens, but the light from his palms doubles, triples, and Fenris watches in awe as the edges of the gash knit together in a long red scar, the broken lines of his tattoos finding one another and seamlessly rejoining...and then Anders is gone.

The mage scrambles away from Fenris toward a clump of stunted scrub brush nearby. He collapses to his knees then down to his hands and vomits, bringing up wave after wave of murky blue liquid that can only be lyrium and bile.

Speechless, Fenris sits frozen as Hawke’s endless rambling slows and trails off. He glances at Fenris’s arm, as if to make sure that he is, in fact, going to be all right before hurrying to Anders’s side, kneeling next to him in the dirt and mumbling under his breath.

“You idiot,” Hawke says, “Anders,  you idiot, you absolute fucking idiot, you could have given yourself lyrium poisoning, chugging four in a row like that -”

“I’m fine,” Anders says weakly. He immediately throws up once again, shaking as if it is the dead of winter in Denerim instead of barely autumn near Kirkwall.

“Damn it,” Hawke growls, “Damn it. Damn you.”

Hawke helps Anders to his feet, half-carrying him toward the cliff wall. The mage sinks down next to Fenris, taking the water skin Varric presses upon him and drinking near half of it.

“You gonna make it, Blondie?” Varric asks, still glancing out into the swirling mist every few moments. “I mean I’m just a dwarf, but uh...isn't it bad for a mage to take that big a dose of lyrium potion?”

“Ha! It _is_ bad,” Hawke answers, his voice still uneven. His arms are crossed right across his chest and he's staring down at Anders as if he isn't certain whether he wants to hug him until he suffocates or shake him until his neck snaps. “This asshole knocked back four of the strongest ones he had, he could have _died_ -”

Anders snorts, leaning his head back against the cliff wall.

“And _he_ ,” Anders mutters, gesturing weakly toward Fenris, “Was on the verge of out bleeding out and dying himself. Forgive me for not wanting to cause him more suffering than he has already endured.”

Hawke’s eyes widen ever so slightly. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Even Varric looks surprised. “I'll be damned,” he mumbles, so quietly that the others - human as they are - likely do not hear.

Anders rolls his eyes and then closes them, clearly expecting no further discussion of the matter.

Hawke kneels down next to Fenris and says his name, but for once Fenris does not look at him. Instead his gaze is fixed upon Anders. The mage is once again haggard and pale, perhaps even worse than he had been after the battle. If not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, Fenris would take him for a corpse.

Hawke asks him something but Fenris still isn’t paying attention. He can’t. There will be time for guilt later, time for him to apologize for calling Hawke a liar, time to hate himself for the strange and twisted ways his mind sometimes works...but right now, his mind is too exhausted for him to focus on more than one line of thought at a time, and Fenris is still thinking of Anders.

He realizes that none of them have said thank you, despite the fact that they all currently owe him their health if not their lives.

Fenris does not trust magic and he does not trust mages, but he has spent a long time around both, long enough to know that what Anders has done for them today is beyond impressive. Factoring in the complete healing of Fenris’s arm, it is more along the lines of miraculous.

_Forgive me for not wanting to cause more pain than he has already endured._

Fenris rubs his gauntleted hand over the fresh scar. He does not know how long it will last, this empathy, this utter lack of animosity...but he speaks nonetheless.

“Anders.”

The mage’s name is strange in his mouth. It must be just as strange to hear, because Varric turns to stare at him and Hawke’s eyes are burning into the back of his head. Anders opens his eyes as well, looking sidelong at him as if he thinks Fenris might still be suffering the effects of blood loss.

Fenris looks away and stares straight ahead.

“Thank you,” he says, then rises to his feet, grabbing his sword from where it leans behind Hawke and lifting his arm to secure it across his back once more. The movement makes him a little dizzy. He sways and Hawke scrambles to his feet, reaching out to steady him, careful to touch only his armor.

“Fenris,” Anders says, and his name sounds just as strange in Anders’ mouth as Anders’ had in his. “Eat something. You lost an alarming amount of blood.”

Fenris nods, and Anders closes his eyes.

“Are you sure you're feeling okay?” Hawke asks softly, incredulously.

“Give me food and I will be fine,” he mutters. “Feed the mage, while you're at it.”

“I am not a zoo animal,” Anders grumbles...but the retort lacks his usual bitterness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, this sat unfinished in my docs for...a long time. A lot of Things happened in my life and most of them are were bad. On top of that I haven't actually played Dragon Age II in a couple years because my PC died and I have an Xbox now and Bioware hasn't made Dragon Age II backward compatible (rude). I've written God knows how many fics since this one, for completely different fandoms. It's Saturday night and I have the flu. I found this doc while I was deleting a bunch of old files and opened it to see if it was worth keeping. I then spent two hours finishing the chapter.
> 
> Why am I like this? I had more chapters planned and I still have the first drafts of them, but knowing myself as I do, I make no promises.
> 
> If you have the means and like what I do, consider [buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/saiyanshewolf)?


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